Who am I?
Just a husk
that has a name,
just a moving body
that claims
some sort of
superior
consciousness.

Who am I?
All flesh and stardust
particles that
become all of us
susceptible
to the inevitable
when my flesh
will cease to mend.
Am I my mortality?

Is this body made
of American skin,
made from some
specific region
that denotes
the value
of my existence.

I remember this
fleshy prison
full of emotions
that I have been
caged in
even when I am
constantly changing.

Who am I?
A puppet on strings
who dreams
of one day being
a real human being,
or at least
a reasonable
facsimile thereof.

Who am I
but a product
of every previous
generation,
a foundation
fitted with
the artistic
endeavors
of the clever.

Who am I?
but a single
ballerina
twirling
on a spinning rock
wondering
which will stop
and drop first.

Who am I?
But a finger
that points towards
heaven's dream
smiling at
sharp clouds that
pierce
the day lit sky.

Who am I?

My heart is
a hungry beast
beating,
and growling
for something,
needing feeding
of primal desires.

It is white shredded bits
of paper
preparing
for the taring
and sharing
of ash
as it burns fast,
consumed
by the embers
that rise
to fires in the eyes
of those
we long to touch.

When I awake
and quake
the tremors
of ecstasy
seeing my sweet fantasy
coming to life
the beast’s
urgency
slowly recedes
and I am free
to be
a rational me.

Until,
the hunger returns
for the next in line
of eternal
sequels.

"---I think...
        that every deep thinker is
            more afraid of being understood
                      than of being misunderstood.---"

is it possible to erase feelings of inadequacy
by overcompensating productivity
will it silence my self doubt
until exhaustion takes over

He lay coughing up
some convoluted construct
of love,

lying about his intent,
investing in
the color of her skin,
the way she would bend
and moan for him,
confessing
her deepest secret
desires on a whim.

She caved
and gave in,
succumbing
to the enslaving
of her will,

believing in
the images he created
to make her naked
in flesh and thought.

She was his  
next great victim.

He was a chameleon,
sweet to violent
in several seconds,

changing her tint
from warm to bruised
then severely crimson
and finally when
the breath of flesh
started failing,

she became porcelain,

and he carried on exploiting
all that was beautiful
for his own profit.

What a lovely night
with just the right
amount of light
to illuminate
my fellow poet.

A little heft
below his chest;

A smile left.
I take several breaths
as he speaks
to me
spiritually.

Brother of
diverging
philosophies,

sweet words spoken,
given as a token
of his scholarly
artistry.

I listen,
grateful
for my grateful dead
looking
gentle ginger
gentile jesus.

If the trees would speak,
They’d tell me to leave,
To find my roots,
Grow up to the clouds,
And find my peace.

it is meant to be
give and take
not
push and pull

the effort
should not be
the struggle